


The Long Road to Goodbye

by Osidiano



Category: Guilty Gear
Genre: F/M, Mysterious Man is a Canon Character, Post-Guilty Gear X, Pre-Guilty Gear X2, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-06-10
Updated: 2005-06-10
Packaged: 2018-03-07 20:23:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3181928
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Osidiano/pseuds/Osidiano
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"My name, you idiot," she growled through clenched teeth. "It's Baiken." She was trembling, staring at the hand on her arm. The gloves were black, probably smooth and slick, but she did not know. He had never touched her before. She was trembling from fear, anticipation, perhaps even excitement. She wanted to feel the skin beneath that cloth on her neck, rough and calloused like she knew it had to be. She wanted to feel his gentle caress, wanted to know if he was capable of one.</p><p>Originally an entry for a contest on DA, where we were supposed to write an unlikely pairing and make it seem at least vaguely plausible. Hence the birth of this story, since no one is more unlikely to be in a relationship than Baiken. You should be able to guess who her mysterious traveling companion is by the end, which is why I didn't tag him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Long Road to Goodbye

**Author's Note:**

> This fic assumes that the two characters did not meet during GGX.

A strong gloved hand was reaching down for her, slick black cloth brushing against her neck. The skin beneath it would be rough, weathered, calloused by years of death and travel, but its texture was masked and chilled by the covering. It left everything up to her imagination, and she scowled darkly at the thought. At the lack of contact. Slowly, almost cautiously, she raised her left hand, resting it gently at his wrist. She could feel him there, heat radiating off the rest of his body. His other hand was on the ground next to her, arm locked and pressing against her hip as he held himself up. Her throat was straining to give voice to a question, her lips forming words silently.

His caress changed then, twitching into a choking grip. Fingers bruised her soft skin; his thumb pressing harshly against the cartilage ridges of her voice box. She coughed, struggled for breath. Desperately, she tried to fight him off, tried to push him away only to find that she could not. Her peach-colored eye widened in shock behind long bangs. She was not strong enough to get away. Above her, she could see him smile, a flash of white among dark features, hidden by the fall of his pale hair. Her vision blurred, something wet trailing from her eye down the left side of her face. He kissed the tear from her cheek and —

Baiken opened her eye abruptly, hand clenching around her katana nervously, obsessively. The night sky was clear and uninterrupted above her; the ground beneath her cold and slightly rocky, but dry. A fire burned a few feet from her, warming her right side and casting light on her surroundings. She realized with a start that she was holding her breath, and gasped, sucking air in greedily. With the help of her katana, Baiken pushed herself up to a sitting position. The chain that hung from the remains of her right arm rattled loudly as she moved, causing her quiet companion to jerk his head up, suddenly roused from his thoughts.

She met his gaze through the flames, firelight reflected in his bright eyes. His hair was greasy and streaked with dirt, hanging in grungy strips over his face. Perhaps it was the flickering light that made him hard to see; made every detail muddled, somehow hazy in her mind. What color was his skin, his hair, his eyes? Would she have been able to tell his origins or ethnicity by them? There was something keeping her from the specifics, from committing him to memory. A low growl escaped her, hostile tension settling in her shoulders and down her arm. It made him seem indescribable, as if even his appearance was beyond her comprehension. And that bothered her. After all, how would she prepare for a battle with an opponent that she could not fully see?

"What is it?" his weapon lay across his lap, balanced on his knees as he asked, head tilted slightly to one side. She could not read the expression evident in his eyes, and chose to blame the fire for clouding her vision. She looked away with a scowl. How had they ended up like this? The question came like a wraith from the shadows, a frigid breeze on her skin and bitter taste in her mouth. She knew the answer well enough; remembered their meeting in the barren wastelands of southwestern Switzerland. It had not been a pleasant one, and she was certain that he still nursed the wound she had given him, just as she still felt the blackened bruises that littered her torso.

But both had wanted to abandon the crowded cities in favor of prewar outposts and dead roads. He was heading for some city or province in Burma, which meant that they were going the same way. Her destination was China — the ruins of Nanjing, to be precise — and it happened to be on the way. And that was why they were together now, traveling through Russia with Switzerland two weeks behind them and a prayer for a late winter on their lips. Two weeks. She marveled at the time. Two weeks, and they had yet to call each other by name.

Not that it mattered, she told herself pointedly. She did not want to know him and would rejoice over their separation in China. The last two weeks had passed by slowly, an eternity of near-silent contemplation. But the extra sound of his heavy footsteps beside her made her jumpy, put her in a state of heightened paranoia. The sound of his labored breathing as they had crossed the mountains had seemed deafening to her, grating and tearing at already frayed nerves. It was worst late at night, when she would sometimes be woken from a light doze by his restless shifting. And, surely, he felt the same. Her chain was constantly rattling or being moved, metal links rubbing against cloth or stone as she slept.

"I. . .it's nothing," she lied easily enough, hand tightening reflexively on the hilt of her katana. This brief and stilted exchange was heavy dialogue for them. His response, should he have one, would set the week's record. He nodded after a moment, the pole he had laid across his knees going from lap to hand as he stood.

"I'll go check."

She watched him go, glaring after his retreating figure. Could he tell that he was the source of her discomfort? Was she so easy to read? Sheathing her weapon, she set it aside with a curse and reached into her loose obi for the thin flask of whiskey she kept there, close to the blade of her tanto. She took a long drink from it, more than she usually had at a time. The flask had held sake before, but the drink was impossible to find in Europe. Now only the rice wine's peculiar aftertaste clung to the metal inside. There was something soothing in the alcoholic burn that slid down her throat, in the warm tingle that spread out from her stomach. For a moment, it even made her forget her dislike for her quiet comrade.

That moment, however, was short-lived.

Baiken stood, chain hanging limply, metal claw dangling below the tattered sleeve of her kimono. It swayed slightly as she stooped to snatch up her katana, thumping lightly against her thigh. Her eye narrowed angrily as she glanced back over her shoulder. He was trailing behind again, lingering on the raised terrain as though he were scanning the dark horizon for the Second Coming. For once, she did not scowl; did not simply walk away. Her pack was lowered to the ground slowly as she turned bodily towards him, confused and annoyed but none the less curious.

". . .You're leaving now, aren't you?" he said it with a strange difficulty, an odd tightening of his throat. The words seemed heavy, sounded somehow ominous coming from him. She blinked, surprised. He was right, and a part of her began to understand his reluctance to continue. The ridge he stood on separated Mongolia from China, and from there she would head southeast while he continued to carve a path straight through the heart of the country. Once, she had asked him why he was taking the roads through Russia, had wondered if there was a reason that he chose the longer way to Burma. He had shrugged, explaining tersely that he would rather deal with dragons and a deadly winter than the Middle East's civil unrest. They had not spoken since.

But why was any of that important? Why did it bother him so much that she was leaving? She opened her mouth as if to speak, but thought better of it, and bit her tongue to stifle the sound. He did not seem to notice, did not seem to even be looking at her, though that was up to speculation. She could not see his face or line of vision, and so did not know.

"You. . .should be careful. In Nanjing, I mean."

Was he worried about her? Her head was reeling from this new development. He had spoken slowly, as if unsure of the exact wording. But Baiken could not even imagine the last time anyone had ever needed such trite and cliched language. She nodded in spite of herself, responding thoughtlessly:

"You should take your own damn advice when you reach Burma."

She turned quickly, grabbing her pack on the way. Behind her, she could hear him coming after her. His travel worn boots slid down the side of the ridge, loose soil and rocks scattering loudly as he did so. His gloved hand closed around her upper arm sooner than she expected. He jerked her back to him, her body turning involuntarily. There was something he wanted to say to her, she could tell. But he was struggling and could not find the words. So she supplied the beginning for him.

"Baiken."

"Excuse me?"

"My name, you idiot," she growled through clenched teeth. "It's Baiken." She was trembling, staring at the hand on her arm. The gloves were black, probably smooth and slick, but she did not know. He had never touched her before. She was trembling from fear, anticipation, perhaps even excitement. She wanted to feel the skin beneath that cloth on her neck, rough and calloused like she knew it had to be. She wanted to feel his gentle caress, wanted to know if he was capable of one.

"Baiken, then. . ." he brushed his hair back with one hand, and for a moment she registered his appearance. For one fleeting moment, she saw him: white hair, dark brown skin, pale blue eyes. But then his full lips were covering hers, the feeling wet and slightly awkward, like it was his first time, and her mind went blank. She heard his weapon hit the ground shortly after her own, felt his freed hand on the side of her face. His fingertips danced over her cheek bone and slid down and back past her ear.

She was kissing him back, but could not bring herself to ask why. Maybe she just wanted to feel _wanted_ , for once in her life. She wrapped her arm around his neck, pressing their bodies against one another, the glove moving to her shoulder. He pulled away breathlessly, whispering against her mouth:

"Don't die in Nanjing, Baiken, because I'm coming back for you."

**Author's Note:**

> The whole 'not being able to describe him or commit him to memory' thing is a part of my personal headcanon for Venom. One day I will write all these headcanons out, I promise.


End file.
